


I'll Write My Own Song

by EnigmaAuthor



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, F/M, Multi, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Reincarnation, The Grand Northern Conspiracy, The North is Independent (A Song of Ice and Fire), Time Travel Fix-It, Working towards, sort of time travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 15:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29473653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EnigmaAuthor/pseuds/EnigmaAuthor
Summary: This isn't my first life. My first life I was your average New England college student. Above average intelligence, but nothing really unique. Then I got hit by a bus while crossing the street.Now I'm living in world that can't seem to pull itself out of the Middle Ages, in the region most famous for its empty land and constant snow, as part of a house that got utterly ruined in the books I read and show I watched.No way am I letting that happen this time around. House Stark and the North will stand above all the rest if I have anything to say about it, which I do. Maybe I can even pull them out of this medieval nonsense.
Relationships: Catelyn Stark/Ned Stark, Elia Martell/Rhaegar Targaryen, Lyarra Stark/Rickard Stark, Other Relationship Tags to Be Added
Comments: 32
Kudos: 125





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> If you're wondering about my other story, Across the Great Sea, I'm not sure what I'm going to do with it. I started tight before college began and that turned out to be a mistake. I might pick up later if my interest in it picks up, but we'll just have to wait and see. Until then enjoy this new story.

Being born a second time sucks.

Not that I can remember being born the first time, which I’m glad for. Experiencing that once was once to many. And don’t ask me to describe it! All I’m ever going to say about is that it wasn’t fun and I really hope this doesn’t happen a third time.

Anyway, so I bet you’re wondering how I know that this is the second time I’ve been born. While I may not remember being born for a first time, I do remember living a life before today. I remember my birthdays, 8th to 22nd. I remember going to school, elementary, middle, high, and my first three years of college. I remember my best friends, Bobby, Sarah, and Ellie.

I remember my parents. My little siblings, the twins Johnny and Maddy! I remember my name! Daniel Marcus Smith! That’s my name.

Or rather, that was my name. You see, I also remember the bus spinning out of control towards the crosswalk. The one my friends and I were on. I remember trying to push Bobby and Ellie forward, Sarah was behind me, before pain took over my every thought. Then I was here. So I guess I didn’t make it. I really hope the others did.

But I’m finding it rather hard to focus on those thoughts. In fact, I’m finding it pretty hard to focus on anything. I can see shapes, some are moving in a way that makes me certain they’re people, but those shapes are blurry and undefined. I hear sounds, but I can’t figure out what could cause them. I feel softness, but it is distant, yet all encompassing. I can think, but I’m so tired, each thought fades quickly. I suppose a baby’s brain and body aren’t meant to comprehend the complex thought and action of an adult.

As I’m fading away, a few words pierce through the haze. It's english, so that’s a relief. And there’s one that keeps repeating. Something in the back of my mind seems to think it's important, but I’m just too tired to care.

That word?

Stark.

********

I haven’t got a clue how long it's been. Two months? Maybe three? The life of an infant is boring and repetitive. I can see why no one who’s lived only one life can remember. It’s just so... forgettable. 

So what have I figured out about my new life so far? Well, quite a bit.

It’s night right now. I’m in a crib in what I’ve figured out is some kind of nursery. There’s only one other crib, which apparently holds my twin brother. Wow, that feels weird to say. I’m pretty sure he’s not a reincarnation though. He cries a lot and still hasn’t figured out how to walk or even stand like me. I can’t really blame him though. Thanks to my reincarnated mind, I’m probably the most advanced infant in the history of infants. In addition to standing and almost walking, I can understand most words, comprehend my surroundings, and stay awake for longer than a few hours at a time. Most of my new information comes from these skills.

First of all my new name. Alaric Stark. Yeah, Stark. I’m in the world of the Game of Thrones, and I’m a freaking Stark. Alaric Stark, son of the Lord Rickard Stark of Winterfell, Warden of the North, and the Lady Lyarra Stark. Younger brother to Brandon Stark, Heir to the North, and twin brother of Eddard Stark.

Yeah. Ned Stark is now my twin brother. 

I haven’t seen much of Winterfell yet, considering I’m an infant. But my new parents, that is still weird to even think about, sometimes take walks carrying my twin and I around the castle. Usually with two year old Brandon toddling along holding their hand. I’ve never had an older brother before. Even among my cousins and friends, I was always the oldest. I suppose it won’t help that I’ll have an older mind even when we grow up.

Man, I really want to grow up. Being coddled all the time and drinking milk from breasts is not worth being so small and weak and out of control of my life! Especially the diapers. Diapers from a world stuck in the middle ages suck. I hate being a baby.

********

The library tower is one of my favorite places in Winterfell. I’ve always loved to read, devouring any book placed in front of me. History, fiction, philosophy, it never mattered. My favorite book series in my first life had always been the Lord of the Rings. And in this medieval world, with no televisions or computers or video games? Books are the only thing that keep me sane. I’ve already devoured everything I can reach on my short toddler legs. On this quiet evening, I’m re-reading a fairly ancient Maester’s account of some war the Starks fought against the Boltons.

It’s now the year 266 After the Conquest, and I’m about three years old now. Things have changed a lot. For me at least. I have been attending five year old Brandon’s lessons, but I think my parents and the old Maester Walys have figured out I’m already way ahead of those subjects. Especially considering my mother is here with me in the library, carefully observing which tomes I choose. 

She’s tried to steer me towards some of the kinder folk tales, but I’ve made it clear I prefer the more academic texts and older legends. 

Hey, I’m not going to hide my intelligence, I finished grade school years ago, going through that again would be insanely boring. 

Though I do worry at times I may be embarrassing Brandon with how much I’m surpassing him. He sometimes seems a little jealous of the attention it gives me. I suppose I should try and fix that before things get too bad.

Ned’s too young to really care. So long as I spare some time to play with him he’s happy. He’s taken to visiting our newly born sister, Lyanna, with his nurse. I think he likes the idea of guarding her from the terrors of the night. It’s cute. 

To be honest, I’m pretty fond of my new little sister too. I may be getting used to this world, but I still miss my family from my first life, especially my little siblings. Helping the nurses look after Ned and Lyanna helps to ease the pain. If I can help it, I have no intention of letting what happened in the original timeline of the books slash show happen in this one. I care about my new family too much. 

On a slightly related note, I’ve discovered that I’m actually the older twin. Go figure.

********

My second favorite place in Winterfell is the Broken Tower. It’s the highest point in the castle, soaring above the highest pillars of the Great Keep providing a view of the surrounding landscape for miles. And it’s been abandoned for more than a century. Same as the rest of the First Keep. On a clear day, I can see the mountains rising to the north on the horizon, across the Wolfswood.

Honestly, it makes no sense to eight year old me. The Tower may be damaged, but the rest of the Keep is in remarkable condition, especially for being thousands of years old, the first Brandon really knew what he was doing. The Great Keep is definitely larger and more central, but I don’t see any reason why we can’t use this massive structure for something.

I’ve actually taken over one of the larger rooms on the third level. It’s warm, dry and sturdy, and has windows that look towards the central courtyard. There are some empty closets, a few wooden chairs, and one rather large table. I’ve taken to calling it my Project Room. I’ve “borrowed” some books and charts from the library and Maester’s Turret, and I’ve begun painting my own, rather large, Map of the North. Some of it from my admittedly fading memory of maps I saw in the books, but I’ve actually noticed what I think are few differences.

The Western branch of the White Knife actually passes rather close to Winterfell, just a field away, and starts in the mountains north of the Wolfswood. And the Kingsroad passes far closer to the castle than the maps on Earth showed. Curious.

Also, I’m pretty sure that I’m in the book version of the story. For one, Winterfell looks nothing like how it was depicted in the show. It's far larger and the building shares none of the same shapes.

In other news, at dinner last evening father announced that Ned shall soon be sent to foster in the Vale with Lord Jon Arryn. It surprised us all, and set us to questioning him.

“Really father?” Ned asked, eyes wide in wonder. “I’m going to the Vale?” None of us children had ever been farther from Winterfell than some hunts in the Wolfswood.

“Rickard, are you sure?” Mother’s voice was laced with concern. “He’s still so young, and fostering in the south? Would not a Northern house be suitable?”

“I am certain dear,” Father’s tone brooked no argument. “It would do our House and the North at large good for at least one of us to have some ties and knowledge of the south.” As though it hadn’t been Walys whispering these ideas in his ear.

“Am I going to be fostered, Father?” Lyarra asked excitedly. At six years old she was a little bundle of energy. “I so want to visit somewhere like maybe Bear island, or the Wall, or maybe…” She tends to ramble on like that sometimes. It's cute.

She and Ned have taken to following me around almost everywhere. Maybe it's because I always make time for things they want to do, such as sparring practice, tending the horses, or swimming in the hot spring pools in the Godswood, I don’t know, but my younger siblings really look up to me.

Benjen didn’t have anything to say, but he was only three, so that wasn’t unusual.

Brandon was quiet as well, and that may have been more concerning. I haven’t figured out how to get through to him and he’s only become more jealous of my skill and knowledge these past few years. Ned and Lyanna following me around all the time hasn’t helped. He’s pushed himself hard to learn more and catch up, and he is far more advanced than most kids his age would be, but he’s still nowhere near my level. I think Maester Walys is actually having trouble trying to figure out what to teach me. It turns out I even know some things about science and mathematics that he’d never even heard of. Westeros, and Citadel, aren’t anywhere near Earth’s level of advancement. 

The only skill that Brandon can triumph over me in is the sparring yard, and that’s due to the fact that he’s larger than me. I’m just not strong enough yet to match him, but Brandon gloats about it whenever he can.

Well, he used to. A few weeks ago he declared that he could win against both Ned and I at the same time. Ser Rodrik, not yet the master-of-arms but still a skilled fighter, at first dismissed the challenge, but Father had been watching.

“Let him prove his claim.” The world of the Lord Stark was final, so Ned and I picked up our wooden swords and faced off against Brandon.

The fight lasted less than thirty seconds. It ended with Brandon toppling to the ground outside the sparring circle, and those watching to stare in shock. What none of them had known was that since we started sparring lessons I had been dragging my twin to the Godswood to practice two person formations. It was one of the formations, which had Ned and I spinning around each other switching between blocking and striking, that had overwhelmed Brandon.

Father nodded before speaking. “A Lord should never boast of skills he does not have.” Brandon quietly fumed before stalking off. Father let him. I knew this would only further drive the wedge between us. “Alaric,” Father then called to me, “Walk with me a bit.” He started off towards the Godswood and I followed. It wasn’t long before we reached the weirwood Heart Tree. 

The Godswood is my favorite place in Winterfell. Several acres of dense trees, and many pools of water, filled by the same hot springs that warm all the structures in the castle. The Heart Tree was a little spooky at first, but it’s grown on me. The ancient core of an ancient woods.

“Where did you get that idea from Al?” Father questioned. His tone was softer than earlier when he was using the voice of the Lord. Now he was using the voice of the father. 

“How do you know that it was my idea, and not Neds?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“As much as I love your twin, your mother and I have long figured that you received all the brains when the two of you were born. Among all your siblings, such an effective plan rarely emerges from any but you.” That was true enough. I love Ned and Lyanna, but they really can’t plan ahead for anything.

“I was reading about some of the old Essosi empires in the library,” I began, “specifically, the empire of Old Ghis. I wondered how just one city could conquer such large territory, and without dragons like the Valyrians.” Father nodded to show he was following. “Well, I think it was because of their lockstep legions. There are tales of how those forces broke armies far larger than their own, fighting in tight formations, each soldier doing their job to hold the line. I thought that made sense, people working in tandem towards one planned move should be able to do more than those working separately.”

Father was quiet for a short time, then he spoke. “Once more you show yourself to be wise far beyond your ears. I have never heard these ideas, not even from my father, but they make sense to me. I should like you for you to point out those books you found on these lockstep legions.” 

I did that, and a few days later I saw some of the guards practicing formation marching and combat. I suppose that’s one improvement I’ve started to make in the North.

Anyway, back to the matter of Ned’s fostering. After dinner, Ned, Lyanna and I retreated to my room to talk.

“You better write tons and tons of letters, or I’ll march to Eyrie and drag you home!” Lyanna made that threat several times, mostly while hitting Ned with a pillow. Ned was quick to agree, though I think would have done so without the threats and assault, and that seemed to mollify our wild sister.

As for me, “Remember Ned, those Southerners are crafty and devious, yet at the same time, more stuck up and prude than an Other! Be careful, and find a good place to pray to our gods. Do not let their Seven sway you.” I really don’t want Ned to have the same friendship he did with Robert in the original timeline, but I can’t figure out any other way but to make him wary of southerners.

“I know Al, I’ll be careful and pray to the old Gods whenever I can.” His voice is as serious as an eight year old can make it. I’m a little worried that I’m turning Ned into a religious zealot, but now that he’s leaving, I can’t do anything about it. Hopefully his time in the Vale will balance things out.

I wonder how life will be without Ned?


	2. Chapter 2

Winterfell feels pretty empty these days. For several reasons.

Reason the first, this will be the third year since Ned left to foster in the Vale, making us both eleven years old. I send him letters whenever I can, telling him all about the little happenings here at home and overviews of lessons I think he should know, and he never fails to respond in kind. Unfortunately, his letters are also filled with increasing praise of both Robert Baratheon and Jon Arryn. Separated by hundreds of miles of land and sea, I don’t know what to do about this.

It was by raven letter that I informed Ned of reason the second, Brandon’s fostering at Barrowton about a year ago. I’m pretty sure this happened in the original timeline, but whatever the reasons, this time they aren’t that pleasant. Brandon has been running increasingly out of control trying to “prove himself worthy” of being Heir of the North. Doing things like sneaking out to hunt in the Wolfswood, or challenging guards much larger than him to duels.

I think he’s being stupid, and I’ve told him, to his face, that I have interest in supplanting him. That only seemed to make things worse. Until then he was just frustrated that I was better. Now he’s actually afraid that Father will choose me over him or something, regardless of the fact that the laws of Westeros don’t permit anything like that. I can’t get through to him, and he’s stopped listening to Father, and common sense.

And so Father decided that perhaps Old Lord Martyn Dustin might have better luck pounding some common sense into Brandon’s head. I really don’t think it’s a good idea, considering how terrified Brandon looked when this was announced, and how he begged Father not to do it. I suppose in his eyes, this was all but confirmation that Father “favored” me. I tried to help him feel better, saying that the Heir to the North should know as much about the North as possible, and that visiting Barrowton would be an excellent way to learn.

Father then ruined it with a nod and a statement. “Yes, he should. You would do well to listen to and learn from your brother, Brandon, wisdom exists naturally in few men. Your brother is one of those lucky few.” Yeah, thanks Father.

So I fear I may be permanently estranged from my elder brother. And then things took a turn for the worse.

It was also by raven that I told Ned of reason the third. Mother died.

She’d been sick for some time. Some disease from Essos was Maester Walys’s best guess. I don’t know anything about diseases or medicine, but I never trusted Walys anyway, so this only lowered my opinion of him.

She finally passed about six months ago. Brandon had visited for the funeral but left soon after. Father seems the most affected, spending most of his time in the Godswood or the Crypts. He’s left the running of Winterfell to Walys and the steward, and the care of the younger children, to Old Nan and me.

Six year old Benjen doesn’t really understand what’s happened, other than the fact the Mother is gone and Father won’t even talk to us. Nine year old Lyanna does understand, but really doesn’t want to accept it. She’s the most persistent in trying to get Father to open up, ambushing him between his rooms and the Godswood. It hasn’t worked though, and so as the only other member of their family in Winterfell, it’s fallen to me to comfort them both.

I can’t say I hate it, spending so much time with my younger siblings, just that I hate the circumstances that caused this situation. I spend quite a lot of time with them now, making sure they get their lessons and meals, swimming with them in the Godswood pools, teaching both of them to fight with swords and daggers and how to ride. Sometimes they’ll pile into my bed at night when they have nightmares.

So not everything is terrible. Walys has entirely given up trying to teach me anything, and now simply recommends books I might find interesting. I often train with the younger guards and squires, and observe the guards as they practice lockstep tactics, sometimes offering advice and guidance as they run into problems.

I suppose this is the first “major change” my presence in Westeros has caused. In the three years since that spar and conversation with Father, the standing guard of House Stark have gone from your average Middle age footmen, to professional soldiers approaching the level of Roman Legionnaires. Marching in step has become almost a habit for them, even as they patrol the walls and the Wintertown in pairs. 

The need to be organized has led to the creation of a nascent “officers core” and ranking system, though they only knew what it was called when I told them about it. The part of me that studied and admired the ancient Roman Empire, led me to pretty much copy their Legion system, though not exactly. There are six hundred guardsmen in Winterfell’s garrison. They have now been divided into six “centuries” of one hundred men, commanded by a “centurion”. Those centuries are then further divided into ten “lines” of ten men led by a “principale”. Overall command now goes to the newly created position of “Legatus”, Ser Rodrik Cassel.

The formation tactics have also created the necessity for standardized equipment, to prevent them from getting in each other's way. Every guard is now outfitted in chainmail shirts with a leather overcoat emblazoned with Stark colors and symbols, thick sturdy boots, and iron hamlet that covers the ears most of the face. They each carry one pike, one medium sword, and a large rectangular shield best for locking a shield wall.

It’s only the six hundred man garrison of Winterfell so far, but watching them train in the yard makes the little kid part of me giddy. The Lords Tallhart, Karstark, and Manderly were similarly impressed during a harvest feast, when they watched fifteen Stark guards demolish thirty-five of their own men in a mock battle, and have declared they’ll be training their house soldiers the same way from now on. 

So, yeah, pretty proud of myself for that.

I do spend time to myself, of course. The walls of my project room are now covered in maps depicting the layout of Winterfell, the Wintertown, and other settlements across the North. Other charts outline population sizes and the known skill of their inhabitants for each settlement, and same for the greater regions of the North as a whole. A complete census has never been done, or even attempted, but from disparate reports gathered over the years, I figure there may be around four to four and a half million people in the North, with the largest concentrations at White Harbor and Barrowton.

My painted Grand Map of the North is almost complete, and I’m rather proud of it. It depicts everything from Land of Always Winter, to just south of the Twins below the Neck. I’ve made carvings for each castle and settlement, complete with little flags to show what house they belong to. 

This is basically my HQ for my personal mission of “Make the North Great Again”. The cupboards are filled with ledgers of plans for improvements that could be made across the North.

It’s as I’m painting some last bits to Flint’s Finger that I hear a noise at the door to the room. This startles me quite a bit, as I’ve never even seen anyone else enter the First Keep before, and I whirl around to face whoever has found my refuge.

To my utter shock and astonishment, Father is standing in the doorway. Sweeping his gaze across the maps and charts covering the walls, he steps into the room. I stand and face him as walks up to the large table where my Grand Map is spread out. For several minutes neither of us speak. He seems to be studying my map, while I’m simply amazed that he’s finally broken his pitiful routine. Then he speaks.

“Alaric, did you make this?” He asks,a hint of wonder coloring his voice.

“Yes, Father, I did.” My reply is cautious, uncertain of what this change could mean for his mood.

He steps back and turns, once again surveying the walls and everything on them. “What is all this?”

I swallow. “Plans, Father. And knowledge. For and of the North and its people. To make us strong.”

“To make us strong?” He asks, turning back to me, an eyebrow raised. “Why?”  
I took a deep breath. This might turn out to be a pretty important explanation.

“Because we are weak, Father,” I start. “Weak when compared to the kingdoms of the south, who can oft field far greater numbers than our own. Who can feed their own people without having to buy grain in the winter. Who mine more gold and iron than we do. Who have more cities and harbors with which trade and build ships. They have vast navies to patrol their shores and make war, where we have none at all. It is in these ways and more, that the South is stronger than us.”

“But even worse, I believe,” I continue, “Is that we are weak compared to our own ancestors. The first of our House, the first Brandon, was called the Builder. Why? Because he built. He built the Wall, the greatest structure in all of Westeros. He raised the walls of Winterfell and this very Keep we stand in. With the Hightowers he laid the foundations for the highest fortress in Westeros, and with the Durrandons he built Storm's End.”

“Now? The Watch that should maintain the Great Wall is dying. This Keep is empty and decaying. The Hightowers long ago kneeled to the Gardener Kings and the Durrandon’s are gone. Moat Cailin? That legendary fortress that held back a thousand Andal invasions? It's now sinking into the swamps of the Neck.”

“Where is the determination of the Builder to rise to greater heights?” I’m now raising my voice as I speak. “Where is the inspiration of the Shipwright, to expand and explore!?” Where is the ferocity of the Hungry Wolf, who expelled the Ironborn and Argos Sevenstar, before sailing to burn Andalos itself!?”

“We are weak.” I conclude, but I’m not finished. “We are weak. But we do not have to be. We may not be Kings right now, but neither was Brandon as first. We are the Heirs of those Starks. House Stark is a House of creators. We have built Monuments, Kingdoms, and Armies. We can do so again. Stark can once again, rise high.”

Father does not respond at first, once more focused on the painted Map. I do not know how long we stand there. It could have been minutes, or maybe hours. Then he speaks.

“Show me.”

********

By the standards of modern Earth, White Harbor is a rather small town. However, by the standards of medieval Westeros, it’s a decent sized settlement. A population of around 35,000 inhabitants makes it the largest population center in the North, with Barrowton coming in second at around 12,000 to 13,000.

The city is built from shockingly white stone, quarried from the nearby cliffs. It’s harbor is large and deep, filled with merchant galleys, traders peddling their wares, and the few dromonds House Manderly maintains for its small house fleet. The shipyards across from the docks are busy with men, every wharf occupied, but for the first time no one knows how long, they aren’t building trade ships.

It’s one of the busiest sights I’ve ever seen in my now fourteen years, and so much has changed since that conversation with Father three years ago in the First Keep. Despite being a child in body, I’ve become one of father’s two chief advisors. The other would be Maester Walys, who since Mothers death has been competing with me to be the sole voice whispering in his ear.

However, I’ve “won” just about every “battle” so far. On my advice, Father sent surveyors to the northern mountains and the many hill systems of the North. It was discovered that in both the northern mountains and the hills west of Torrhen’s Square in the Rills. that many deposits of valuable metals existed. Silver and iron in the northern mountains, and gold and platinum in the Rills. Both sites also reported a strange, black material that was found in their initial excavations. It was useless in building but burned remarkably well, and is quickly becoming the favored fuel in the forge. I’m pretty sure it’s some form of coal.

Father has also organized a new lumber trade with Houses Cerwyn, Umber, Glover, and Forrester, who control most of the North's forests. There is a larger than expected demand for good lumber in the South, where they’ve cut down most of their forests long ago and failed to adequately replant them. Bravos, to whom Qohor often refuses to sell its lumber, has also shown interest in the trade.

Another incredibly valuable commodity provided by the mountain clans was their version of concrete, apparently developed to help stabilize their homes in the mountains. When it comes to building, cement is a game changer, allowing for easier construction of stronger and more durable structures, and roads. Which is just what we need right now.

The increased traffic across the North has necessitated a better system of roads. The Kingsroad and the path between Barrowton and White Harbor have been significantly improved, and new roads are being laid out, connecting Deepwood Motte to Winterfell and Ramsgate to White Harbor. Other roads have also connected Torren’s Square, Last Hearth, and the lands of the Mountain Clans to the Kingsroad.

Both branches of the White Kife have become important highways, ferrying lumber and ore to White Harbor, Winterfell, and Barrowton. The traffic along the Kingsroad and western branch of the White Knife, its position along the Kingsroad, and its central position in the North have also caused Winterfell to become a hub of trade and commerce, swelling the Wintertown’s population. That growth has been further fueled by the more than doubling of Winterfell’s crop yield, owing to the new irrigation and farming strategies, brought by accident by some Essosi immigrants here to establish ties with the newly forming economic powerhouse that is the North.

As the town grows, so too does the Winterfell garrison. Nearing one thousand men, the Winter Legion, as many are now calling it, is quickly becoming the pride of the North’s arms. Almost every House in the North has adopted the same tactics and systems. In total, the North now has around nine thousand “Legionnaires”, and with increased births and immigration, I expect that number to grow.

That growing population of the Wintertown, now around eight thousand souls, is one of the chief reasons Father and I are here in White Harbor. Father wants to inspect the city, and learn how to build one. He intends to build his city between the hills of WInterfell and the banks of the White Knife. Currently it’s his favorite project, and I’m honestly pretty happy that he’s so enthusiastic about something after Mother’s death. Honestly, he’s really thrown himself fully into Project “Make the North Great Again.” 

Twelve year old Lyanna was of course outraged to be once again left behind, however, this time he gave in and so sent her to foster for a year on Bear Island. I miss her plenty, but from her letters, it seems she’s having a blast with Maege Mormont and her eldest daughters.

Benjen is currently the Stark in Winterfell, but at nine years old, it's really Maester Walys, Steward Poole, and Ser Rodrik who govern the castle in our absence.

Fifteen year old Brandon has so far made one trip to Winterfell, after Father and I left for White Harbor, and now spends most of his time riding about the Rills, Barrowlands, and the Wolfswood alongside several other heirs of northern houses. People have started to call him the Wandering Wolf.

The other reason for or visit is happening right across the harbor from where I stand and watch. Father has commissioned the Manderly shipyards to construct and harbor a new Northern fleet. Ten ships are under construction, with more planned. Father has also been working with Lord Manderly to organize surveyors who will begin looking for a spot to begin construction of a western port.

Lord Wyman Mandery is a tall, broad-shouldered, fiercely intelligent man who has nowhere near begun to earn his future nickname of Lord-To-Fat-Too-Sit-On-A-Horse. He has been incredibly enthusiastic about all the improvements made to the North these past few years, especially the increased trade and new Northern fleet. He is entirely onboard with Make the North Great Again. As are his sons, Wylis and Wendel, who I’ve become good friends with during my time here. Wendel in particular, a second son, is excited at the prospect of joining the new White Harbor Legion, and has started to dream of one day becoming its Legatus.

Oh, did I mention I now have a direwolf? That’s probably something I should mention. Father and I had taken a short trip to one of the lumber camps about a year ago, and I split off from the main party for a bit to stroll along a creek. Crossing some boulders, I tripped on a stray root and fell into some underbrush. Hearing a small yelp, I dug through the brush and found the little guy buried there. He was bloody, but uninjured, which was a little confusing. At least until I carried him a little ways down the river, and found the remains of his parents and littermates, alongs the corpses of four bears. The pair had least gone down fighting.

Father was amazed by my discovery, and quickly agreed to let me keep him. I decided to name him Magnar, the word in the Old Tongue for lord.

Lyanna and Benjen were delighted to meet Magnar. Lyanna thinks he’s the cutest thing to ever live and loves to spend time brushing his fur, and Benjen is always asking if he’ll be big enough to ride one day. Magnar, who is sitting next to me right now, at one year old almost the size of an average hound with a dark grey coat and piercing grey eyes, simply loves the attention.

As for Father, I know he’s always thought highly of me, but ever since I found Magnar he’s never missed an opportunity to sing my praises. I’m starting to become concerned he may actually want me to inherit over Brandon. A rather horrifying thought.

Regardless, things only seem to be looking up for House Stark and the North. As I turn from the harbor to begin the trek up the New Castle, Magnar falling into step beside me, I can’t help but wonder if something is about to go terribly wrong.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> College is not fun.

I’m starting to craft plans to remove Walys from his position of Maester of WInterfell. It’s nothing personal. Well, actually it’s extremely personal. I should probably stop. The plans are becoming rather violent. I can’t help it though, he’s really pissing me off. The guy seems to have made it his mission to replace me as Father’s chief advisor, though he hasn’t made much progress on that front. Well, except for one thing.

Eighteen year old Brandon is now betrothed to Catelyn Tully of Riverrun, daughter of the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands, Hoster Tully. The idea of tying the Riverlands’s about forty thousand soldiers and fertile farmland to us was simply too tempting an idea for Father, despite my advice about avoiding ties to the kingdom with no natural borders or long history of unification.

This wouldn’t have been too bad, however, the day after Father sent a raven to inform Brandon of the betrothal, a letter from him arrived declaring his intent to wed Barbrey Ryswell. The daughter of the Lord of the Rills. I vaguely recall this happening in the original timeline as well. If I remember correctly, he’ll have already slept with her by now. It was this insult, combined with Ned failing to bring back the remains of her future husband, Willam Dustin, when he died at the Tower of Joy, that led to her hidden hatred of House Stark. She would eventually side with the Boltons after the Red Wedding. No way am I letting her husband die this time around.

Of course, Brandon was furious about the betrothal, and somehow laid the blame for it at my feet. He doesn’t seem to understand that I’ve been arguing in his favor. Honestly? I’m starting to get rather tired of trying to repair our relationship. The divide has simply grown to great. It doesn’t help that he and I are rarely ever in the same place. He only ever visits Winterfell when I’m not there. Apparently, the last time I was away, he visited with some gifts for Lyanna and Benjen, and promptly tried to not-so-subtly turn them against me.

It was a ridiculous attempt, especially as I’ve been teaching them about “deceitful southron manipulators” for years. Hopefully to prevent my little sister from falling for the silver tongue of a certain silver prince. When I got back the pair was quick to warn me that Brandon was “becoming a southerner”. Legatus Sir Rodrik informed me of how Lyanna chased Brandon around the yard with a practice sword, calling him a “southron bastard”. He couldn’t stop laughing as he recounted the story.

So, yeah. I think my relationship with Brandon is permanently shot. Though after that last stunt, I don’t much care. 

On a side note, I really don’t want Catelyn Tully ro become Lady of Winterfell. Her religious zealotry and determination to stick to southern customs has no place in Winterfell. I don’t hate her, especially considering I technically haven’t met her yet, I just don’t want to deal with her.

In happier news, Ned is finally returning home from the Vale! We last heard word of his arrival at and departure from White Harbor. His party is believed to arrive just a few days before the feast to celebrate our sixteenth nameday. I’m actually pretty excited. It’s been almost eight years since I’ve last seen my twin’s face. I’ve lacked for company my own age here in Winterfell since he left. Benjen and Lyanna are great and I love spending time with them, but our relationship with them is more like that of a protector and teacher and a somewhat surrogate parent, considering our Father’s increasing disinterest in his children other than Brandon and I. I think he actually forgot that I had a twin brother at one point. He’s really not the best father in the world.

Well, I say that I lacked companionship my own age, but that’s not really true. I have a few friends that I enjoy spending time with, some more regularly than others. 

Wylis and Wendel Manderly have become good friends of mine. They’re big fans of Make the North Great Again, just like their father. We’ll often spend time discussing the plans of improvement, debating the best ways forward. We’ve taken a few trips together along the west coast with the surveyors, looking for places to construct a western port. 

Two locations have been selected so far, one at the mouth of Torrhen’s river just south of the Rills, and another just west of Deepwood Motte. The southern port is to become a western trade hub to mirror White Harbor, so it’ll probably be given to a Manderly. The northern port, with better access to lumber, is to be the western shipyard charged with constructing a new western fleet for the North. It will probably go directly to House Glover.

Another pair that I’ve become fond of are Galbart and Robett Glover. I met them about a year ago when the young and newly ascended Galbart ravened Winterfell asking for aid against a large group of bandits raiding the new Wolfswood road. 

An increase in banditry was one disadvantage that resulted from the increase in trade and travel in the North. However, it also provided a good reason to begin regular armed patrols of the roads and populated lands. There have been talks of forming a new mounted legion dedicated to that single purpose. But that appears to be some time off.

In response to that raven, Father sent Legatus Rodrik Cassel with a hundred mounted Skirmishers, a relatively new unit within the Legion. He also decided that I should go with him. I, of course, brought Magnar. This would be mine and his first large battle.

Lord Galbart and Robett, whom I met upon our arrival at the appointed assembly site, brought with them a hundred of their own men. Mostly mounted archers and skirmishers. The two men were incredibly similar, one might almost think them twins, and were only a few years older than my then fifteen year old self. They were both solemn and serious, focused on the task before us. I found them rather likable, and I believe they thought the same of me. They also brought along their youngest brother Ethan, perhaps twelve years old, who was an excitable little fellow. Apparently he was acting as squire to his brothers, and would not be allowed near actual battle. 

After a few hours of hunting, I felt a prickling at the back of my head. Sensations of running quickly, then stopping suddenly to hide in a brush. It was almost a double vision, as I could see and hear what was around me, but also what wasn’t. I was almost knocked off my horse by how unbalanced it made me. It took me a moment to figure it out, but I eventually realized that this must be Magnar’s presence in my mind. I suppose I can now add the presence of a warg to the list of things that have now changed in the North.

Trying to focus on those foreign sensations, I was able to quickly figure out where Magnar was projecting them from, and that he was doing so to tell me he had found the bandit camp. The others were a little hesitant to trust my word without any evidence when I told them of the location, but I am their liege lords second son, so they decided to humor me.

In the end, the battle was rather anticlimactic. The sentry watching the direction we crept up from was asleep, an empty wine bottle at his side. Magnar caused a distraction from the other side of the camp, leaping upon and tearing out the throat of the sentry there, who was wide awake long enough to call out. As the bandits rushed that way, we fell upon them from behind, first with a volley of arrows commanded by Robett, then a mounted charge straight through the camp led by Galbart. Rodrik then led the skirmishers, including myself, on foot to mop up the survivors and take prisoners. 

I think this was the first time I’ve ever killed anyone. I’d certainly never done so in my first life. It wasn’t pleasant, but Rodrik told me I’d done well, and joked that it was probably a good thing I didn’t enjoy killing.

Some of the bandits managed to escape, fleeing eastward. Galbart was about to lead the chase after them, when we were all surprised by Brandon’s arrival from that direction, leading his group of heirs and other wanderers. They were bloody, and carrying the heads of those who had fled.

He seemed rather gleeful, despite the carnage, at least until he saw me. After a brief altercation where he once more accused me of stealing his glory, this time he actually tried to strike me with his sword, Rodrik shoved him off and then told him off. He left quickly after that, still ranting about my supposed disloyalty and incompetence. I don’t think Galbart or Robett were very impressed. They were then furious when they learned that Ethan had run off with Brandon, declaring to his minders that he would be squire to the Heir of the North.

After they calmed down, and I promised to talk to Father about what happened with Brandon and Ethan, they thanked Rodrik and I for our aid before inviting us to a feast celebrate our victory. It was a small, but energetic affair, though the party thrown by the smallfolk was far larger and ran longer. After the festivities concluded, Galbart and Robett promised to attend the next celebration at Winterfell, and to keep in touch via raven. 

The last friend I’ve made, and the one I see most regularly. A stablehand and cavalry recruit named Walder. You probably know of him in the show or books by the name of Hodor, Bran’s simple minded yet kind and giant protector. In this timeline, the events that led to the destruction of his mind have not occurred, and they hopefully will not ever occur.

In any case, Walder is an energetic fellow almost my own age, just a year older. As I said, he works as a stable hand, but is training to join the cavalry arm of the Winterfell Legion. He had a bit of a self confidence issue, but I think I’ve set him straight on that. I remember how he was our first meeting.

“M-My lord,” he spoke with an almost stutter. “I’m a lowborn. It's not proper for I to spend time with a noble as high as yourself!”

I just spent a moment looking at him with an incredulous expression.

“Walder, your grandmother helped raise me and my siblings, I don’t care about whatever nonsense our ranks are supposed to mean, and neither do most of my family. I’ll spend my time with whomever I please. Right now, that’s you.”

Our friendship began and grew from there. We spar often, and when I take my younger siblings for a ride he’ll occasionally join me. Lyanna and Benjen have also taken a liking to him. Benjen in particular loves to ride on his shoulders, and Lyanna loves having another person willing to spar with her or help her take care of her horse. He was a little intimidated by Magnar at first, but after a thorough inspection of sniffing, I could tell my direwolf had given him a seal of approval.

Like I said. I do miss Ned a lot. He’s my twin brother whom I haven’t seen in eight years and I'll be very happy to see him when he arrives. But I haven’t been lacking for friends while he’s been gone.

I only hope I’ve managed to make a difference in his personality from the original timeline.

********

I’ve utterly failed to make any difference in Ned’s personality. Ever since he’s arrived he’s been singing the praises of both Jon Arryn and Robert Baratheon, an unholy paradox in my opinion, considering how different the two are.

I had enough of it when he suggested a betrothal between Robert and Lyanna. No way no how was I going to let that happen.

I don’t have any good arguments against his praise of Jon Arryn, but I do try to argue against Robert. The conversation that followed was maddening, though I made sure Lyanna and Benjen were in the same room.

“Wait, what did you say?”

“I said, Robert has plenty of honor! He even gave money to support his daughter and her mother.” Ned’s eyes were full of a childish earnestness. 

“I thought you said Robert was unwed. And why would he need to give them money?” At that, Ned’s expression turned sheepish.

“Oh, ah, he isn’t wed.” My eyes narrowed at that.

“Wait what!?” Lyanna’s fourteen year old voice exclaimed as she popped up from where she’d been pretending not to listen. “You want me to wed a man who already has one bastard!?”

“Ahm, well. He doesn’t have one bastard.” Ned’s eyes were fixed on the floor. Mine widened. I had thought Robert had only one bastard by this time. The man was worse than I thought. 

“He has more than one? He’s only seventeen! This is the man you want our sister to marry?” I asked incredulously. 

“Alright, perhaps he’s not the best husband material right now!” Ned shouted, throwing his hands in the air. “But he is a good man. He’s kind and charitable and always gets along with everyone he meets. No one can do anything but join him in laughter.”

“I’m not gonna marry some dishonourable, disloyal, southerner!” Lyanna declared. “And if you think I would, Ned, then you’re just-just a-another rotten southerner!” Lyanna ran out of the room as she finished. Benjen followed, also declaring Ned to be a rotten southerner. Blinking, mouth gaping in confusion, my twin turned back to me.

“Southerner?” Bewilderment filled his voice. “Since when was that an insult of theirs?” I shrugged.

“I was trying to teach them to be wary of the intrigue that’s usually so prevalent in southern courts, but I may have been too effective. They’ve become convinced that all southerners are scheming demons, though I think Lyanna knows better now. She’s just mad.” Turning back to Ned, my eyes sharpened once more.

“But she is right on one account Ned. You’ve been gone for eight years. You don’t know her so well anymore. Try and do so before you even think of making any more betrothal suggestions?”  
“I suppose you’re right, Al.” Ned sighed. “I’m sorry. Roberts has just been such a good friend to me. His parents died around the same time as mother, you know? We comforted each other then. It’s hard for me to remember that not everyone likes him.” A pleading look entered his eyes. “But can you just give him a chance when you meet? I promise you if you don’t like him then, I'll drop it. Just one chance, Al?”

“Alight.” I sighed. “I’ll give him a chance. But that’s all I promise!” I say as Ned nods happily. “For now, we’ll put this behind us. Now it’s time to celebrate and reconnect. Brother, oh twin of mine! I’ve missed you so!” I pull Ned into a hug that he fiercely returns. 

“Perhaps you can properly introduce me to your own friends?” Ned suggests. “I’ve met the Manderly brothers, but I hardly know them or the others.” I laugh and agree.

“Of course! Then perhaps, I can show you how much Winterfell and the Wintertown have changed these past years.” Too which Ned agrees.

“I’d like that. I could hardly recognize this castle when we rode up. I thought we’d made a wrong turn and ended up at Barrowton at first!” We laughed again, before Ned’s expression turned thoughtful. “But I have to ask, Al, where’s Bran? Shouldn’t he be here as well.” I frowned.

“Officially, Father has forbade all talk of Brandon’s whereabouts and actions.” To which Ned gaped at. “Unofficially, our elder brother has become convinced that Father intends to replace him with me as Heir to Winterfell and the North.”

“What?!” Ned was horrified.

“The greatest problem,” I continued, “Is that I don’t know if he’s right or wrong.”

“You don’t mean…?” Ned almost whispered.

“I fear I do.” I confirmed. “I have become rather terrified that father may actually want to make me his Heir over Brandon’s rightful claim.” Ned seemed to be in shock. After a few moments, he spoke.

“Well, shit.”

“Indeed, brother mine.” I snorted. “My thoughts exactly.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully next chapter will have the first scenes of Alaric in the south.


	4. Interlude 1: A Mad Man

The hour is late. No sunlight streams through the windows. Only the fire of torches and braziers brighten the immense hall. Their flames dance in his eyes, shadows flickering in the corners, around pillars, and in the eyes of the many massive skulls, drawing his twitching gaze.

The hall is empty and quiet, but for the pair of white cloaked and armored figures standing guard at the foot of the dias steps, and the red and gold clothed man who stood just before them. And of course, the crowned man who sits upon the great metal monstrosity that is the seat of kings.

He is old now. His eldest son is man grown. His hair is more white than silver, face lined with stress, teeth yellowing. And his fingernails are more alike to claws. But still a dragon. It passes through his head. A dragon that stands above all the rest. Those are his thoughts as he gazes down upon the man he had once deigned to call friend. _Never a friend. All serve the dragon. Servants only_. 

The man who stands at the foot of his throne is also old, but he has weathered it far better. His hair, though balding, is still golden. His shoulders are broad and strong. His face holds far fewer lines. As the fires flare high a moment, the golden lion embroidered across his tunic seems to roar in defiance.

It deepens his anger.

“An illness?” His tone is hard.

“Yes, Your Grace,” the red cloaked man responds. “My Maester has advised me to avoid stress and rest as often as possible. I fear I shall no longer be able to serve as your Hand as well as I should. I offer my resignation.”

It is a lie. A very obvious one. _A trick? Another Duskendale?_ A hint of fear most certainly does not rise up in his heart at that thought. This lion had once tried this tactic before, but he wasn’t going to let a potentiation traitor out of his sight. Now however… _Let him try and make his plots. I have his golden heir. I’ll send the cub’s hide to him as a new coat._ ...there is little danger left now.

“I suppose one of your father’s sons would be struck down so easily.” Disappointingly, the lord did not react to the jab at his predecessor. “You will vacate the Tower of the Hand and leave my city in the morning.” 

“Of course, Your Grace.” The man gave a stiff, shallow bow, before turning to leave. The slight infuriates him, and for a moment he is tempted to call for his favored Alchemists, _The Dragon rules supreme! Burn them all!_ but no, that would be too… messy. So he lets it pass, and settles for glaring hatefully at the man’s retreating form. 

Now who would he choose to replace the traitor? One of our most loyal. It is truly a shame there are no nobles among the alchemists. Now there is an order that knows what it's doing. Maybe he should enoble one of their number? Alas, the rest of the kingdom would never understand it, uncultured fools. _Only Valyria matters_. They just couldn’t understand. None of them could. 

Too his left a shadow moved, and his hands tightened, the blades beneath them just slightly cutting into his skin, the call for the guards on his tongue. But that word died as he recognized the shadows face, and his hands loosened. 

“Spider,” He bit out, unwilling to let his momentary unease show, “what are you here for?” 

The man in question moved to stand before him, garbed in flowing silk and nauseous perfumes. His bald head dipped low in a deep bow. _As all should_. 

“As always, Your Grace,” his voice was sweet, almost honeyed, “I am here to praise your great wisdom, and perform my honored duty to your glorious reign.” The man is a simpering fool, but at least he knows his place, and performs his job well. 

“Oh? You have praise for your king?” If it was honest, he wouldn’t turn it away. 

“Yes, Your Grace.” He nodded his head in the direction the lion had scampered off too. “You were wise to send the Lannister lord away. He has tasted the fruits of power for far too long. Fruits that are yours by right, and yours alone. It was time to cut him off.” 

“Yes, of course.” That wasn’t at all what happened, but if the Spider wished to admire him, _Admire the Dragon_ , who was he to deny that admiration? 

“And now, with your leave, I will deliver to you, what my little birds have delivered to me.” Little birds. His words were so poetic. It reminded him of his son. _Snake_. It displeased him. 

“Get on with it then.” He commanded with a wave of his hand. 

“As was announced some weeks ago, Lord Walter Whent of Harrenhal has declared that in six months time, he shall host a grand tourney to celebrate his daughter’s nameday, the likes of which have never been seen before in Westeros. The prizes he has announced are incredible, and already hundreds of knights and nobles have declared their intention to attend. It promises to be the event of the century.” None of this was news to him. 

“Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms knows this, Master of Whisperers, or is there a point to this babble.” 

“Of course, Your Grace. However, there are some who wonder just where Lord Whent has acquired this much coin from. Of course, the lands sworn to Harrenhal are rich, perhaps the wealthiest in the Kingdoms. But some believe that the Lord has a hidden benefactor providing some additional support.” 

Hidden benefactor? _A spy?! A traitor?!_ Now this held his interest. The master spy continued. 

“Some have noted that it was only after the Lord Whent was visited by his brother, Ser Oswell Whent of the Kingsgard, that he announced this tourney. They whisper that his benefactor may be royal.” 

“I give my patronage only to those who have my complete trust.” Whent? So he couldn;t trust his own Kingsgard? _Burn them_. And he learns this right after he had made the lion’s son Ser Arthur’s squire. Typical for his luck. 

“Ah. I wondered, but I was not sure that it was you, Your Grace. Perhaps your son then?” 

His son? That ridiculous man-boy who can’t pull his head out of songs and books? _Puny wyrm_. Who couldn’t put more than two babes in his wife’s belly? 

“Why would my song obsessed son be funding tourneys?” 

“I couldn't say, Your Grace. Perhaps he enjoys the festivals that accompany them? Or the women they draw? Though a thought does come to mind. A great many lords are to attend this tourney, both great and minor. Perhaps your son wishes to meet them? He is next in line for the throne, and a tourney is a joyous occasion, perfect for making friends and allies.” 

The boy was plotting? Uncharacteristic, but not unlikely. He had openly defied him in the past, _Burn the traitors_ , perhaps his defiance is evolving. He had not planned on attending the tourney, useless as they are, but now he would have to reconsider. 

“I shall consider this. Is there anything else you have to report?” 

“One other matter, Your Grace, of a rather interesting development.” His last piece of news was certainly ‘interesting.’ 

“Just speak you blubbering fool.” 

“You see, Your Grace, it pertains to the North.” The man was confused by that. The North? _Uncultured savages_. What significance did that barren wasteland hold with anything? 

“I said speak. What does the barren and empty North have to do with anything?” 

“Well, Your Grace, the North is no longer so barren and empty. They appear to have found a certain… energy to their lives. They are laying miles upon miles of roads, expanding their trade in both distance and commodity. Their population grows as their supply of food increases and the lure of opportunity shines brighter. They are drawing immigrants from all the southern kingdoms, and even the Free cities and beyond. Skilled craftsmen and simple laborers alike. Their towns grow and new settlements emerge.” 

So the Northerners had gotten off their asses and found some culture at long last. So what? _Nothing compares to the Dragon’s glory_. 

“So the North is prosperous and wealthy. Why should I care?” 

“Because, Your Grace, they are using this newfound wealth to arm themselves.” The Spider’s face and tone are solem and unwavering. 

“What do you mean, arming themselves?” 

As the number of their people grows, so too do the number of their soldiers. Those new craftsmen are put to work, building ships for a new Northern fleet, crafting new Northern weapons. And the soldiers themselves are of new breed entirely. Trained day by day in the tactics of the old empires, organized into well oiled fighting machines, called Legions. The North is a growing power my lord, but that is not all.” 

“Go on.” Inwardly, he began to sweat. The North? A military power? _Rebels!_

“They are also gathering allies. Lord Rickard Stark’s eldest son and heir is long betrothed to the eldest daughter of Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun, and his daughter is now newly betrothed to Lord Robert Baratheon of Storm's End. His third born son was fostered in the Vale, and it is said that the Lord Jon Arryn considers him a son he’s never had.” 

“This is disturbing.” An understatement to be sure. 

“Indeed, Your Grace. And if that alliance was not already formidable enough, there are rumors that Lord Stark intends to betroth his second born son to Lord Lannisters only daughter.” 

That traitor?! Bound to this immensely powerful alliance?! No! 

This cannot happen! 

“And how do you suggest I act in response to this news?” He managed to keep his outwardly calm appearance. _Burn them all! Traitors!_ But it was becoming rather difficult to think clearly. _Wake the Dragon!_

“Unfortunately, Your Grace, I lack enough information to make a recommendation. Their sudden influx of immigrants has made it much easier for my little birds to slip through the cracks, but there are still too few to be as effective as I would prefer. However, it appears that the Lord Stark plans to send his favored, second born son on a, ‘round the kingdom voyage’.” 

“A what?” Confusion managed to pierce the growing rage in his mind. 

“A sort of tour across the kingdoms, Your Grace, in which Lord Starks second son, the young Alaric Stark, will be sailing from the newly constructed western port, to several other ports across the kingdoms. He will meet with many different lords and display the new power and wealth that House Stark and the North can now boast of. The journey will end in Maidenpool, after which he will meet with his sibling and journey to Harrenhall.” 

“How is this to my benefit?” It sounded like another plot to gain allies against the throne. 

“One location he will certainly be instructed to visit, is this very city, Your Grace. What better place to display wealth and power, than the capital of Westeros? And while he is here, you and your agents will be able to question and inquire of him and his retinue. From this we shall learn what exactly the North intends to do with their newfound might.” 

“A wise plan.” Let the boy come to him, so certain in his own power. If, or when, he slips up… _Traitors must burn_ … it will be far easier to deal with him. If he doesn’t, he’ll simply follow them to Harrenhall, and learn their secrets there. 

As for his son… _Burn them all._


End file.
